Thursday, July 31, 2003

you won't see them often

for whatever the crowd is

they are not.

these odd ones, not


but from them


the few

good paintings

the few

good symphonies

the few

good books

and other


and from the

best of the

strange ones



they are

their own


their own


their own


their own


-From Charles Bukowski's "The Strongest of the Strange"

Tuesday, July 29, 2003

I saw the new Tomb Raider movie this past weekend. While definitely not Oscar-worthy, it was still a rockin' good time to watch and much better than the first. Angelina Jolie was picture perfect as Lara Croft. It actually was fairly feminist in its portrayal of this sexy action hero. How ironic that a big-titted male fantasy video game character has been transformed into the latest incarnation of female empowerment. Of course, because of what I do I couldn't help but see her as a domme through and through -- she even has 2 men (read: slaves) who live and work for her (i.e. do her bidding). She is one hot mama too! I am a bit envious of little girls growing up right now because they have so many cool female role models. They will grow up with more confidence and sense of entitlement than any previous generation. Yet it isn't all fun and games. They are also being groomed to be as strong and responsible as men. And still be beautiful and moms. In the future, they may be equally expected to be the soldiers and decision-makers of the world. Which brings me to this interesting supposition. Many men who come to me say it's because they are so in charge in their daily lives that they need release through loss of control. As women gain more power in the world, might the same desire sprout up in them as well? And how will their need to lose control manifest itself? Male prodommes? Somehow, I think not. But you never know...

Saturday, July 26, 2003

Madame S had a sample sale last week and I came home with 2 new latex dresses! I did an impromptu photo shoot in them and just put the pics up on my site, check it out. The red and black dress was supposedly made for Masuimi Max. I love her style. Punk rock, bad ass and sexy as hell...

Friday, July 18, 2003

Here is something one of my slaves wrote after a scene with me. It's beautifully written and gives insight into female domination from the other side. Enjoy!

It starts with a whup on the ass. Well not quite. It really starts with you naked and kneeling, just waiting for something that could change you forever. So you kneel. Like in the pews where as a child you waited for confession, absolution, a wafer. That felt right. This feels right too. Only here your sins may not be forgiven, but they will certainly be revealed.

You hear footsteps. Impossibly formidable heels like the ones that neared the door as you stood on the sunny porch of this seemingly run-of-the-mill-looking Victorian, that halted only as the door opened and so you entered with this mix of vague hopes and vague dreads of what could come.

Little did you know. Now, here in this dungeon, the footsteps sound like knocks onto the doors that open into the little dark corners of your soul; only now the pressure changes imperceptibly in this dungeon as the doorknob turns and the door-latch gives in to her will and then the door opens and the impossibly heavy heels enter and resting inside them the delicious feet of the woman who will irrevocably be your mistress, gliding in with the glass of water in one hand (in a disposable plastic cup) for you, which you requested long ago, and in the other hand a ice-cold beer stein of water for her. She places your cup on the floor and hers on a wooden shelf several feet above the floor - and you suddenly understand that this is how it's going to go from now on.

She paces, all patience, all grace of the feline and just when you've gotten used to it she reaches around you and at first it feels good, the silk of her skin brushing against your ribs, it feels like just what you feel you're entitled to - and suddenly you feel the pain shoot inward from your nipples. It is the first of many shots of pain from those twin portals for her power, and eventually they feel like reports of sensation (like the wind in your face on a nasty autumn day) except they get more painful, and ever more painful.

And now, she's whipping your ass.

The last thing your conscious mind recalls is the clamping of the collar on your neck. You'd think the sensation is one of anxiety, but it's relief, the release of control to one better worthy of it, so that the only thing that counts now is something that wasn't among the thousands of things that worried you just a quarter of an hour before - or at any point in your life (now a short blur of indistinguishable memories, that erstwhile life), the only thing that matters is this: what she wants. That's why you secretly wanted the collar all along. Only now when you think of the collar, what you think is: will it come off?

There follows a litany of rituals, each more devastating and yet more fulfilling than the one before: Fleece-lined leather braces on the wrists and ankles, with metal clasps that bind your extremities together. Stand up and be slapped on the face. The ass is tortured further, spanked, abused in every manner it deserves. Finally, the sensuous, vine-like arms navigate around to find your nipples once more and inflict the familiar agony. In a careless moment, you fall into the arms of your torturer; she pulls you upright by the hair and, finding your mouth open, approaches you like a lover about to kiss you. You hear a strange, uneasy sound inside her sinuously slender throat and then she spits into the spittoon of your awaiting kiss. There are a dozen sensations competing for the right to interpret this unprecedented act: In the end, your entire mouth gives in to the sweet sensation of the gift - it has the charge of her power, which you will come to know more forcefully. You gladly swallow. It's inside you now and there it will stay.

Just as you savor this thin triumph, she fastens you to a St Andrew's cross and flogs your mind clear of any thought that was there. She somehow and brutally manages to insert a painful eternity of anticipation between each flog. Just as you're straining to look sidelong in the mirror for some warning of the next flog, it strikes you. Sad but true: you are no match for her. Then she unbinds you and twists you around so you can worship her body. It is a deceptively feminine envelope, that body. Inside crouches a twin power - the ancient, authoritarian dominance that the phallus has laid claim to through history; and the subversive, nimbly feminine antidote that has all along kept it in check. But in a cruel fusion that you never allowed yourself to even consider, the two are not only before you in this body that is now approaching you.

Any fear is elbowed aside by the need to show this body the respect it deserves by coursing your fingers softly up and down its ingenious contours. But there's a problem: your hands are bound behind your back. Now she is so close you can feel her heat on your skin, you strain to inhale the moist breath she exhales. It's so depressing: she knows know exactly what you're thinking, feeling now what you feel even before you do. Dispirited, you're yanked to new heights now because her hands descend to the roots of your hair and pull you to the perfect belly beneath her corset.

Okay, she is merciful. If only the world at large were this merciful. But in the very moment when you're savoring this mercy you find yourself thinking: how the fuck did these clothespins get on my nipples? And then, at some moment in that incoherent fever of pain, her corset - the garment that in its presence symbolized authority itself, but that signifies an even deeper domination with its very removal - comes off. How hard did the gods labor to create this, a perfect navel pierced with a worshipping arc of a ring?.

She walks away, then returns in quite a different state. But I get ahead of myself.

Your mind is unexpectedly visited by a familiar, philosophical thought: why are we always mixing bodies up with gender? It's extraordinarily difficult to change the sex of your body from male to female or female to male. For some, it's very much worth the trouble. But somehow, the order of things arranged it that changing your gender is a snap. There's no trouble involved. Well, actually the trouble is, hardly anyone is comfortable with this very truth. A woman can fuck like a straight woman (she can receive a cock) or like a man (she can give one). And a man can fuck like a woman, or a man. For anyone who is not cripplingly uptight, both are splendidly fun. And both, really, have their own frequency of power.

So it shouldn't be much of a surprise that you now find her firm cock in your mouth. Your first fleeting thought is, this ain't so bad. Hell, a guy could get used to this. It's almost a fantastic joke: such a slim-throated creature is now so thick in your own throat. Then it pushes down deeper, and suddenly it's a great choke. You think you can forego gagging - and this same thought perishes right before you gag. It's a pathetic, altogether helpless gesture. But then she praises you - yes, gag on it, she says - and suddenly it seems glorious. You take it deeper, shove your tongue out, relax those throat muscles (yes, this is how you heard it's done - a seemingly useless factoid gleaned from a magazine article read idly in a dentist's office, or maybe a dull vignette on The Man's Show - which rushes unkempt into the forefront of your consciousness - so earnest is your desire to please this invasive penis). And the result is you gag again. What an ass. But an obedient ass. It's okay, she seems to think it's good enough from you. This is not exactly the moment to overturn the proverbial apple cart.

Now she slides the blindfolds over you. -Can you see? -No, Mistress, I can't see. But there's a sliver of light off on the side. Does that count? It doesn't matter, she's off on the other side of the room. Maybe it's all over now? No, it's not over now. Not by a long shot. After a soft symphony of her movements at a comfortable distance and a tense reprieve for you, she takes the blindfold off and commands you into this suspended harness, the likes of which you've never seen before but that you will never forget. You scuttle right in, you cock-whipped bastard.

So here's where you're thinking at this moment, this very moment when she looks down straight into your eyes and gently announces that she's going to loosen you up. In your delirium, you mistook this for an act of kindness, a sweet caress in a place both cherished and feared by most men that should be a candy reward but is in fact a prelude of a greater violation to come. You're sitting in the suspended harness, as comfortable and carefree as a five-year-old rocking on a swingset. You're looking up at her and see her with a look of devout concentration putting lubricant on her forefingers and studiously bringing them down and then there's this sudden, unexpected warm summer shower up your ass like a whiskey enema.

Later, you'll recall this moment when you looked up at her and you started thinking like some perverted TV jingle: she's in the woman's body, I'm in the man's body, but she's the man, and I'm the woman. Or better yet, we're both some newly evolved creatures that transcended stupid compartments of gender. And just at that instant, she turned her face up and looked straight at you with this steely look and for some inexplicable reason it then softened and she bent down gently until her face was just a few inches above yours, and you could feel the soft summer breeze of her breath on you so clearly that you would just let it in your own mouth and it would be inside of you, and that itself made you pretty fucking happy, and yet you could still feel the power of her cock inside of you too and it conquered you cell by cell until you were her slave not just in name but in unshakeable fact.

Sure, it's never been much of a problem for you to be with a woman who can make you feel like a man fucking a woman. And you won't knock it at all - it's very nice. It's just very, very much the rule. Now you see what a rare exception it is to find a woman who can fuck a man the way a man fucks a woman. And yet, if you think about it in a certain statistical way, that shouldn't be the case. It shouldn't be the case at all. Ever since the introduction of dildos (What? Sometime in the mid-1800s? Around the time - just a coincidence? - of the suffrage movement), women have had the technological means to fuck a man like a man fucks a woman, and yet in this virgin millennium it is still preciously rare.

There's this little Wagnerian opera of her unbearably sexy movements manipulating her penis inside you, and all too soon it's over. You've been fucked. Not fucked like oh,-you're-so-fucked-over or even oh-you're-so-fucked-up, but fully and blissfully fucked. Like, well, like a you think a woman wants to be fucked. Women, you think, should be so lucky to be fucked like this by a man. But now you remember you are a man (those cardboard notions of gender still remain standing in this world) and the demands of masculinity cascade back down upon you. But lucky for you, it's different now. The people shouting gender roles seem like little plastic army men on the ground below you. You knew all along that you're not male or female, you were assigned gender like the postal service assigns a number to your post office box. People are naturally bi-gendered, or maybe ambisexual. This is the idea that brought you here to this dungeon, the notion knocking on your head like heavy high-heels on wooden floors.

Unharnassed and gently succored in aftercare by your mistress, your febrile mind tries to take it all in. Maybe it wasn't, you tell yourself, as humiliating as it seemed. Hey, if it wasn't for the fact that you'd been ass-whupped, nipple tweaked, spat on, viciously face-slapped, clothes-pinned on those selfsame nipples, spanked and then flogged, forced to worship a body without your consent, mouth-raped, fucked but good and left after all is said and done saying thank you very much mistress - if it wasn't for all this, you'd be a lucky little imp.

Wednesday, July 16, 2003

In those first stirrings of the morning, in those blurry moments of half asleep and half awake, I found myself staring down between my legs. There I spied a huge, pale flesh-colored dildo strapped onto my body. It was a queer dream indeed. . . Strangest of all that I would be wearing a dildo of that color -- I prefer dark brown, black, purple or pink ;-)

I've been curious about the idea of "packing." That is, wearing a dildo underneath my pants to imitate the look and feel of cock and balls. They sell some super-soft dildos at Good Vibes just for this purpose -- not firm enough for penetration but just right for this effect. So kinky. I love it!!!

Thursday, July 10, 2003

I took a workshop by the Fetish Diva Midori where she had us define and chart out distinctions between being a sadist, a masochist, a dominant, a submissive, a top and a bottom. Though these 3 sets of oppositional terms are sometimes used interchangeably there are important distinctions. Here are some basic definitions to keep in mind. A sadist enjoys inflicting intense sensation. A masochist enjoys receiving the same. A dominant enjoys taking control. A submissive enjoys yielding to the will of another. Topping involves being sadistic and/or dominant. Bottoming involves being masochistic and/or submissive. Keep in mind that people can inhabit more than the typical categorizations of sadistic dominant or masochistic submissive. Someone may be into feeling pain but not into being mentally dominated. Or they may enjoy making someone hurt but only under the orders of another. If you chart it like an X-Y axis with sadism, dominance and topping on one axis and masochism, submission and bottoming on the other, then you can fully grasp the scope of permutations possible.

I often hear stories of seminal events that occurred in childhood. That seems to be the time when things are etched into our psyche and turn up as kinks later in life. As a sadomasochistic dominant, I can look back on various episodes back then and see how each is like a piece of the puzzle. I was quite dominant as a little girl – yes, I was a brat. I ordered my older brothers around. For whatever reason, in my family’s house they had to do chores but I never did. So they basically waited on me. I was also a sadist, though not necessarily a pure-hearted one. I recall seeing my little brother standing on a stool reaching for something in the cupboard. I wanted to see what it would be like to watch him fall, so I pulled the stool out from under him. I confess these things now, there is not pride for these actions. It simply helps explain who I am. And there is my masochistic side. I remember jokingly hitting a boy I liked over the head with a tetherball – I know, more sadism, but wait there’s more! He was not amused and retaliated by repeatedly throwing his flip-flops at my bare feet. It stung but I kept laughing because I didn’t want to show that it hurt. I thought it was very brave to hold the pain inside.

People often associate sadism with strength and masochism with weakness. Yet to take pain into one’s body and hold it there and then take more – to me, that can be a very brave thing to do. And sadism unchecked by morality is a weak and evil thing.

Masochism is interesting in that it is often used to describe what women do to themselves. Troubled girls who starve themselves, or cut themselves or let themselves be hurt by another. It’s funny how the world can look so different depending on one’s perspective. Because to me, masochism is not that different from another similar-sounding word – machismo or being macho. To be a real man, you take the pain and keep on going, you are tough and roll with the punches. And you have the war wounds to prove it. How is that so different from masochism?

I recall a conversation I had with a man who used to perpetually frustrate me. He was one of these men who put everything that a woman said through a filter of what he defined as womanhood: to him, weakness, simplicity and manipulation. He was a chauvinist, but in such in a subtle way that he could still come off as hip and have a girlfriend who was into goddess worship. I was telling a group of people a story about when I was in high school. I used to compete in speech and debate tournaments every weekend for almost 4 years. I almost always came home with a trophy – there are hundreds still in storage at my parents’ house. I used to get so worked up over winning that sometimes I’d get laryngitis. It came like clockwork right before the competition and I’m sure it was psychosomatically induced. I’d compete anyways hoarse voice and all, slay dragons, then take my trophy home. Then the next day it would go away, only to come back again for the next tournament the following weekend. So I told this story and the chauvinist says to me, “My, you are a fragile girl.” That’s what he got out of my story. Very different from my perspective, to say the least!

Suffering as weakness. Suffering as strength. Masochism versus Machismo.
A quick addendum to my last entry. I do have some loyal slaves who are more internally focused in their submission. As such, blindfolds do wonders to bringing them fully under my control. So looking my slaves in the eye is not a hard and fast rule. Flexibility is key to all things.
I’m not the kind of domme that makes my slaves lower their eyes. I don’t expect them to hunch over in some posture of weakness. And I don’t demand absolute silence during the scene. It’s just not my style. I think such requirements can sometimes act like crutches, substituting for a real experience of being taken over by another. I want to look into your eyes when I take control– that’s how I get into your head, lock into your energy and hold you in my thrall. Shackling you up and making you hurt, yes these are important to me as well. But the physical trappings of domination are not the same as being dominated. Someone once said to me after a scene that he liked how confident I seemed. Hmmm, to me such a comment reflects that he’d never truly been dominated before. If a domme can’t look her slave in the eye, then what is she afraid of? And if she’s afraid, how can she exert absolute power? Fearlessness. That’s what I think is truly important when enslaving the will of another.

Wednesday, July 9, 2003

In life, it is often that which is subtle, mysterious and outwardly inpenetrable that can be the most rewarding.

Tuesday, July 8, 2003

I spent part of the holiday weekend chilling out in front of the TV with some rentals. Miranda -- a movie starring Christina Ricci as a mysterious dancer/businesswoman/dominatrix -- was abysmal. Adaptation was well-acted and very good but too self-consciously clever to be brilliant. Auto Focus was a fascinating portrait of Hogan’s Heroes star Bob Crane’s deadly descent into sexual addiction. But my favorite was a gay-themed indie called The Fluffer. It was about a young gay man who moves to Hollywood to become a camera man. He gets a job shooting pornos and ends up falling in love with and fluffing one of the hot stars Johnny Rebel. It turns out Johnny is actually “gay-for-pay” and has a stripper girlfriend. What I liked about the story was how it portrayed the fluffer and the stripper as psycho-sadomasochists who humiliated themselves sexually to gain the attention and affection of Johnny. I enjoy films with dynamics involving sexual intrigue. All that suffering, hand-wringing and betrayal. Though I try to keep high drama out of my own life, it is fun to watch. Just imagine, if these characters had discovered the joys of BDSM, they could place all of this in the proper perspective -- as play with negotiated limits -- and start enjoying life again ;-)

Thursday, July 3, 2003

In the past, I used to enjoy straight, mainstream porn magazines and videos. I was never one to read Cosmo or other so-called women's magazines because I found their focus on "how to get a man" and "be skinny" to be passive-aggressively misogynistic. Instead, I happiliy subscribed to several adult men's magazines. Yet since I started work as a prodomme, I've chafed at the same images that once turned me on. Now when I look at mainstream porn, I see how in every pictoral or scene it’s the women who are submissive and receptive. I'm not offended by this objectification in and of itself, but I now see how one-sided it is. So I am searching for some fun, hot but decidedly more kinky images. I posted a question about this on Max Fisch with only 1 response. Am I alone in my search? The one person who responded was Mistress Yasmin Ling -- a TS domme I met at one of the DomDominion events. She has a lovely fetish site called which deals with the eroticization of being fullbody encased in nylon hosiery, spandex and other materials.

Wednesday, July 2, 2003

I've been posting a bit on Max Fisch's The Hang. It's a very active board for dommes and subs from all over the world. I've received inquiries about sessions in Los Angeles and New York. Good excuses to travel!

Here is my answer to the a question posted on Max about why young women would choose to prodomme:
Though I am still in my late 20s, I have been a seeker in life and have sought out a diversity of experiences over the past 12 years. I started working when I was 15. I’ve had a career as a journalist and in sales & marketing. I have a college degree and have traveled and studied around the world. And I have been in touch with my sexuality from early on. I grew up in a feminist household where issues of gender and power were often a focus of discussion. So even though I’d been interested in erotic work for some time, the vanilla roles I was familiar with --- stripping and porn – were not quite right for me (the thought of acting submissively to men in an erotic situation didn’t suit me, I didn’t like that men controlled these businesses). Meanwhile, I continued to explore on a personal level polyamory, bisexuality (7+ years of strap-on experience!), and gender-bending. But it wasn’t until I met and became lovers with a woman who revealed that she was a dominatrix did I finally find this truly exciting and fulfilling role. I’ve been a prodomme for a little over a year and it’s amazing how it continues to be so rewarding on so many levels. So I think biological age does not always reflect the depth of one’s life experiences.

Tuesday, July 1, 2003

Another amazing Pride weekend just passed. There is always such an amazing feeling at all the events -- the parade and block party at city hall, roaming the streets of the Castro, getting your groove on at The Cafe or The End Up. Everyone is just so friendly and open. If only it could be that way all the time! And it couldn't have been more perfect timing with the Supreme Court striking down anti-sodomy laws. Get your lube and celebrate -- anal sex is legal ;-)